Three Beautiful Things Before Breakfast
by Marie Suzette
Summary: Sometimes, it's so easy to fix things ... The Doctor promises to show you three beautiful things before breakfast.


**Title**: Three Beautiful Things Before Breakfast  
**Fandom**: Doctor Who  
**Rating**: G  
**Summary**: Sometimes, it's so easy to fix things ... The Doctor promises to show you three beautiful things before breakfast.  
**Author's Note**: It is worth warning you that this fic is not only a blatant Mary-Sue, it is a blatant Mary-Sue with delusions of second-person narration, so it's not just a self-insert, it's a self-insert where the "self" in question is you, the reader. This was written for a friend, as a Hanukkah present last year – I didn't get around to finishing it until over a year later, sadly. She asked for "Doctor Who or Torchwood fix-it fic, plus random fruit." This ... is apparently what my brain came up with. I don't even know.

Sometimes, the Doctor dreams.

He dreams of his people, mostly. His children, his grandchildren, his family, his friends, his enemies, the people who should have died and the people who did not deserve death. Like there are good humans and there are evil humans, there were good Timelords and there were evil Timelords, but now there is only him. And he has to be good and evil and just and represent the whole of his people in one individual, and the burden is sometimes heavy.

When he wakes from these dreams, he seeks out the humans. Silly overgrown apes, the lot of them, nowhere near as sophisticated as Timelords, but they look Timelord enough and act Timelord enough that it's almost good enough. He fixes the humans because he couldn't fix the Timelords.

Sometimes, it is hard to fix the humans – for all their strengths (their opposable thumbs, their courageous hearts, their clever tongues), they have just as many flaws (their trigger-happy tendencies, their blatant disregard for chronological integrity, the way they turned apathy into an _art_ form by the 32nd century). Sometimes, he has to make difficult decisions, sacrifices, for the sake of the humans.

Other times, it can be so easy to fix things. Other times, all that is needed is one trip to the great beyond to inspire awe in the heart of a child, to bring wonder to the eyes of the jaded, to elicit joy. Other times, fixing things can be a simple matter …

* * *

"Take me somewhere beautiful," you wish, your eyes intent on the stars you cannot see because of the polluted sky, your fists clenching and unclenching. You look so forlorn, he thinks, and it will be so easy. All you needs is a chance to believe something good of the universe again and all the Doctor needs to do is show you a sunrise on Cardassius after a snowstorm. Nobody can see that and _not_ believe in the beauty of the universe.

"Come with me," the Doctor says, Pied Piper that he is, "and I can guarantee you will see three beautiful things before breakfast time."

He holds out his hand and you take it, and he thinks about the poetry of the simple gesture.

You rather spoil it with your next words, though. "You're sure you can get me back in time to study for exams next week? Only, I don't know how much to trust this time travel thing …" you say skeptically.

"I'm a very meticulous pilot when it comes to space and time," the Doctor says indignantly.

"And don't let anybody tell you any different," he adds hastily. "Now, what are you waiting for?"

* * *

He takes you to New Moon first, because to truly appreciate the beauty of the sunrise, one needs to be comfortably full from a satisfying meal, and New Moon promises all that.

He orders for you a 15-course meal of the most amazing delicacies, all designed to cater to 21st-century human sensibilities, as he'd had a few Companions who hadn't been so keen on the Gloft-Ear Soup.

Instead, you look at it dubiously and say, "Are you sure I can eat this? I have food allergies, you know. I don't know whether I'm allergic to alien equivalents."

The Doctor is about to reassure you not to worry, but he pauses. Actually, this is not a matter he'd ever needed to know about before, and he really isn't prepared to deal with anaphylactic shock right now. Human were so fragile, it seemed.

"The soup should be alright," he finally says, pushing it toward you. "And have a banana."

You peer at the soup. "Does this soup have … _ears_ in it?"

"Uhh … it's getting late. We should move on to the next stop!"

* * *

"Next stop, the Cliffs of Antierphn," the Doctor announces.

The Cliffs of Antierphn are not so much beautiful as striking. They plunge for miles and miles, the stone of the mountains glittering by sunlight and shimmering by moonlight, the view from the top both breathtaking and awe-inspiring, the view from the bottom simply intimidating. People didn't come to the Cliffs of Antierphn for the view, though, however beautiful it may be.

One didn't come to the Cliffs of Antierphn to _look_ but rather to _fly_.

The natives of Antierphn had developed a marvelous contraption which one could mount, and then _zoom_ down the Cliffs of Antierphn and out, and then up again, experiencing the thrill of flight while getting a close look at the beautiful cliffs. The Doctor had been on the things a few times himself, and still found the experience hair-raisingly fun each time.

Things start going wrong the minute they arrive, however.

"I don't know about this," you say dubiously, looking down at the breathtaking view. "It looks kind of dangerous."

"Nonsense," the Doctor scoffs. "I know for a fact that this thing is perfectly safe. It doesn't malfunction until 3752, which is, uh … last three years from now. Probably." Recognizing that he isn't being very convincing, he hurries on with, "Come along now," and doesn't even check to see if you are following.

The problem is, of course, that the inhabitants of Antierphn, while basically humanoid in form, tend to be long-limbed folk (taller, with entirely different proportions). And the Doctor, in all the incarnations that have come to the Cliffs of Antierphn, has always been tall enough himself that it's never quite mattered.

So of course, when you frown in concern at the straps holding you in ("Is this supposed to feel this flimsy?"), the Doctor doesn't even hesitate before waving off your concerns.

In his defense, the contraptions have _very_ good fail-safe devices. You were never in any _real_ danger. In fact, the back-up parachute that took over after you tumbled out of the contraption probably provided you with an even _more_ impressive view of the height of the cliffs and their marvelous beauty.

It's not his fault you didn't see it _quite_ the same way.

* * *

The Hanging Gardens of Fleuropazia are said to be the most beautiful in the universe – unlike most hanging gardens, it isn't the garden that hangs, but rather the visitors. More specifically, visitors glide above the gardens in steam-powered balloons.

The Doctor loves it because it's always sunny, always beautiful, always full of the chatter of birds, vibrant with flora, a veritable paradise (thanks to the hardworking conservation efforts of the Fleuropazians – they're quite protective of their gardens, which is part of the reason visitors aren't allowed to walk _through_ them, but rather glide _over_ them so as not to harm the plants).

"We're here," he announces. "This is going to be _wonderful_."

"Great," is your only response. "More flying?"

"But _these_ are safe," he insisted. "_And_ they move slowly, and only a few feet over the ground, so nothing to worry about."

You look suspiciously outside. "Too sunny," you pronounce. "Does the TARDIS stock any sunblock?"

Temporarily derailed, the Doctor gives this some thought. "I think … so?" he ventures. The TARDIS has a mind of her own, though. He doesn't like to make any promises about what she contains at any given moment in time (or space). "But this planet doesn't have UV rays," he says. "The sun's all different."

"So I won't get sunburnt?" you asks. "Or skin cancer?" You give him a suspicious look, having learned not to trust his assurances quite so much. "I think I'll bring a hat."

This time the steam-powered balloon seems safe enough, and both get on with no difficulty. The view is, as always amazing. It shortly becomes apparently, however, that you are violently allergic to one of the species in the garden – the sneezes come four or five at a time, and the last sneezing fit is so violent your hat fall off and blows away in the wind.

"Gread," you sniff. "How buch logger?"

"Here, let me see if I can make this go any faster," the Doctor says sympathetically as he pulls out his sonic screwdriver. "Then we can get back to the TARDIS and- oops."

"What does oops mean?" you ask, before descending into another succession of sneezes.

When the humming noise the balloon had been making rather abruptly stops, and the machine starts falling, it becomes quickly apparent what "Oops" meant.

* * *

"It's cold," you say crossly.

"It's a Cardassian snowstorm, of course it's cold," the Doctor says. "Just wait. It'll clear up any minute now."

"That's what you said five minutes ago. And fifteen minutes before that. And-"

You cut yourself off, because the snow has rather suddenly settled, and you turn speechless at the view before you.

Sunrise on Cardassius after a snowstorm – one of the more beautiful sights the world has to offer.

The Doctor smiles rather smugly. "I to-"

"Sh. Don't ruin the moment."

* * *

"Thank you," you say when he's taken you back home, smiling as you have been ever since you left Cardassius.

"Are you sure that's all you want to see?" the Doctor asks, concerned. This trip hadn't turned out quite as successful as he intended it. "I could show you the Firepits of Wando-"

"I'm good," you interrupt. "I think I've had enough adventure for a lifetime. Thank you." You look up at the skies, and your eyes see the stars even though they're not visible.

The Doctor smiles. Sometimes, it is so easy to fix things.

* * *

Postscript: "You said you would get me back in time for finals, you bastard!"


End file.
